The thin canvas door was pushed open. Fred stood up; his eyes dilated; his blood ran cold. It was Margaret Dearing to whom the voluble merchant was casually introducing him. Margaret started and paled. “Mr. _Spencer!_” she echoed, then quickly averted her face from the inattentive glance of her host. Walton's eyes went down as he bowed, white and quivering. He could say nothing. “Now, I'll leave you two to get acquainted,” Marston said, quite unconscious that anything unusual had happened, and, gathering up some sheets of paper from his desk, he hastened away. “Margaret!” Walton gasped, when they were alone in the awful silence of the room. “Mr. Spencer?--_Spencer?_” the young lady groped, as she gazed on him in helpless wonder. “God forgive me, I had to change my name!” he panted, as he stood white as death could have made him under her timid, almost frightened stare. “I had no other reason than that I wanted to live down my disgrace, and it looked like it would be impossible otherwise. I was a drowning man, Margaret, grasping at a straw; a new life opened out to me, and I entered it with the hope that--” “I understand!” the girl gasped, and she drew herself up in pained haughtiness and twisted her gloved hands tightly in front of her. “But need we--talk about it?” “No, I haven't even _that_ right,” Walton declared, as he looked at the woman, grown infinitely more beautiful and graceful than even her girlhood had foreshadowed. “I promised Wynn the night I left that I'd never insult you by coming in contact with you again, or even addressing a line to you. I knew we had to part--that I could best serve you by going away never to return. Your brother was right. He acted only as any honorable man should in talking to me as he did. I was insane to aspire to your friendship with that thing hanging over me; but it was the insanity of love, Margaret--a love that never can die. I ought not to say it now, but what does it matter? I am not fit for you to wipe your feet on. I am still a fugitive from justice--a criminal living under an assumed name.” He paused, for she had collapsed limply into Marston's chair, and was resting her white brow on her bloodless hand. “Oh, don't--it is--is killing me!” she cried. “I had thought we might never meet again. I was beginning to hope that, in time, the memory of--of it all would be less painful, but it is revived again. Oh, it is unbearable!” He took a deep, trembling breath, and moved a step nearer to her. “But even _you_ will grant that, by continued effort, I may purge my soul of it--at least, in the eyes of God,” he said. “I don't mean that I could ever ask you to receive me openly as an equal after what has happened, but you will, at least, be glad that I am honestly striving to lead a better life.” “Yes, yes,” she said--“oh yes!”